


All The Things We Never Said

by dumbasshyperfixationtime



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adult Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Porn, Dead Stanley Uris, Drunken Kissing, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, First Time, Fix-It, Hand Jobs, IT Chapter Two Spoilers, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, It's literally just soft smut, M/M, Mentioned Myra Kaspbrak, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Minor Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Movie: IT Chapter Two (2019), Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Richie Tozier Cries During Sex, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Shameless Smut, Soft Richie Tozier, The Derry Townhouse (IT)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:35:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22400422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dumbasshyperfixationtime/pseuds/dumbasshyperfixationtime
Summary: 'I love you, Eddie. Kiss me, Eddie. Don’t go, Eddie. We can leave this town together, Eddie. Please, Eddie. Don’t let me lose you, Eddie.'Richie let the love of his life go once before at seventeen and it broke his heart.He can't stand the idea of losing him again, but he's not alone in that sentiment.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 10
Kudos: 129





	All The Things We Never Said

**Author's Note:**

> I'm adding the the endless, bottomless pit of post-It Derry Townhouse smut oneshots.

Eddie’s alive. Living, breathing, hands flying around as he speaks, ‘ _It’s Eddie, not Eds- asshole’,_ fast walking and even faster talking, Eddie Kaspbrak levels of _alive._ If Richie wants- and by God, does he want- he could reach forward, touch him and it’d be real. His hand wouldn’t ghost through, it wouldn’t be a dream, he wouldn’t end up touching the wood of the kissing bridge and pretending it’s the boy he loved however-the-fuck many years ago. He’d be soft, somewhat calloused with age but not _really,_ because he _moisturizes_ and yeah, he’d probably stare at Richie weirdly or hit him because they’re adults now and they don’t touch like that anymore- they aren’t sixteen and lonely like before- but he’d still be _touching Eddie._  
  
There’s no subtle way to put it: he saw him die in the deadlights. Cold, eyes wide open, choking on blood, ‘ _I fucked your mom’,_ sad smiles, things left unsaid levels of dead. He can’t really get it out of his head; the way he came back after defeating _It_ only to find that the nightmare isn’t over and a man he’s never really stopped loving, despite forgetting, is lying lifeless against the ground of the very place he hated most. _He left him there, for heaven’s sake!_ Dream, deadlights Richie can be a _real prick._  
  
And sure, he can’t sleep anymore, and sure, whenever Eddie gives him a particular kind of grin, dimples deepening in the way they had before being stabbed, he goes in to a weird kind of shock where he wants to scream and cry and die- But that’s nothing therapy can’t fix, right? Besides, Eddie’s _alive._ That’s the main thing.  
  
The road to recovery had been particularly rocky. Before Eddie woke up, when they were stuck in this strange limbo where there were two realities facing them- the one where Eddie’s dead, or the one where he somehow makes it out alive- Richie didn’t shower. He locked himself away in his hotel room, staring out the window and down at the rubble of Derry, watching as construction workers picked up the missing pieces of a crumbling town day by day. Eventually, Bev had come inside and _begged_ him to shower, à la ‘ _you smell like shit, Richie, and if Eddie wakes up to see you like this, he’ll freak the fuck out’_ and he did as much, but refused to function until he knew his best friend was safe.   
  
And then he was.   
  
Richie didn’t feel any better.   
  
But he’s back now and it’s their last night in the townhouse before he packs his bags and leaves, along with everyone else- Richie included, if his manager’s incessant texts and threats are anything to go by. It’s their last night together before they return to their mundane, unhappy lives with less-than-close friends and tight smiles. One final night with his true family until they make the mistake of splitting up and risking forgetting one another _all over again._ Richie will drink to _that shit,_ right?  
  
And drink he does, tipping his head back and hardly flinching at the way the alcohol burns his chest- he’s used to this now; he went through a _heavy_ alcoholic stage that lasted the entirety of his motherfucking career. Eddie tips back his drinks, too, but his face twitches with displeasure and he _very clearly_ dislikes anything to do with the activity. But _hell,_ it’s their last night together, right? Why not drink, even if it’s horrible? Richie can remember this- the Eddie hating drinking thing. He supposes some things don’t really change. They’d go to parties- very rarely, mind you, but near the end of it all, he did have this rebellious ‘ _fuck Sonia’_ streak that left him _living_ and doing stupid shit like kissing Richie that one night that they’ll probably leave unsaid until they die of old age or a heart attack or a killer clown- and he’d be gone with two cups of punch. A lightweight in childhood _and_ adulthood, bless his goddamned heart.   
  
Beverly tips back another glass, not far behind Richie (celebrities and their drinking, right?) and turns around to give Ben the softest goddamned kiss you’ve ever seen from where she’s sitting on his lap. Richie gulps down another swig of whiskey. _Good on them, but do they have to be happy right in front of his face when he’s looking at the love of his life and thinking about the wedding ring stuck on his finger?  
  
_ Eddie laughs at something Bill’s said, and Mike gives them both a proud kind of smile. His eyes wrinkle up as he closes them and tips his head back and _fuck,_ maybe Richie’s _still_ too sober.  
  
Slowly, the night winds down. First it’s Mike and Bill who go to bed, suspiciously enough at the same time. Then Ben’s off, which makes Beverly chase him not too soon after, albeit after a few more swigs of the good ol’ juice, and suddenly it’s just Richie and Eddie, sitting in the townhouse with something unsaid drifting between them. _Fuck, when did that happen?_  
  
“What’cha doing now that all of this is done, Rich?” Eddie’s voice is all sloshy and slurry with the alcohol in system and if it does something to Richie, then he sure as shit won’t admit it.   
  
“Well, my manager’s kind of pissed at me. So face his wrath, probably.” Eddie snorts at that, glorious and sweet and _yeah, maybe a little too tipsy_ , before leaning forward on his chair- _fuck, when did he get so close, either? In fact, did he move that chair himself?_ \- and smiling in a private, kind, mostly polite way.  
  
“Gonna start writing your own material?” Eddie takes a sip of his own drink, grinning against the glass when Richie laughs breathily.  
  
“Laying into me about that one, huh?”  
  
“ _Yeah, Rich-_ “ A glint sparks in his eye, and Richie’s all too familiar with it- it’s the kind of look he gets before saying he told his mom to fuck off, before screaming ‘ _I’m gonna fucking kill you!’_ and bitch-slapping a clown, before leaning in and kissing Richie, before denying it the next morning and leaving him hungover, sad and confused at seventeen “You’re selling yourself short!”  
  
“Plenty of celebrities have ghostwriters, man.”  
  
“But they aren’t _you!_ ” Eddie throws one hand up, almost forgetting about the drink in the other and doing the same, sloshing liquid around in his glass when he stops himself to prevent a disastrous spillage.   
  
“ _Eddie,_ ” Richie gasps, incredulous “are you saying I’m- _God forbid-_ funny?” Eddie laughs again, this time a snortier sound where he wrinkles his nose and looks a _lot_ like he had as a teenager, before grinning wickedly and nodding his head.   
  
“Don’t tell the others but _yes,_ I _am._ Write your own shit or I’ll never talk to you again.” Richie doesn’t mention that he probably won’t anyway once he’s left Derry, because that’s the kind of thing you keep to yourself until it’s a little, painful tumor sitting on your heart- one of those things you _know_ but never admit, like being in love with the man you’re going to lose all over again. _Bury it down, hide it- too painful to show anyone.  
  
_ “Well, what about you, then? What’re you doing after all this?” _After Derry, after me,_ goes unsaid.   
  
“I have some business things to handle, but overall, it’s gonna be the same old.”   
  
“How boring of you.” Eddie smiles but doesn’t laugh this time, looking somewhere slightly off to the left, past Richie’s shoulder.   
  
“Yeah,” A silence falls between them, certainly not uncomfortable but undeniably _pregnant_ before Eddie’s gaze flitters back to Richie’s face, raking in his eyes, the stubble of his chin, his lips- he’s sure it’s his lips and not his nose- and back into his irises. Interrogating him, analyzing him, without necessarily speaking “Myra’s going to lay into me, though.”   
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Fifty missed calls.” Eddie rings out, voice manically chipper and over-the-top.   
  
“She sounds like a _delight._ ” And sure, maybe Richie’s being sarcastic- a tad _too_ sarcastic for what’s probably going to be his last ever conversation with Eddie- but can you blame the guy? There’s a lot bottled up in there, a whole lotta ‘ _what the fuck’_ s waiting to be let out because he can remember, with absolute clarity, the time Eddie had sobbed on his shoulder and muttered ‘ _I think I might be gay, Richie’_. Sure, maybe it’s wrong to be mad at him for finding out later, when they’re old, wrinkly and horribly depressed with the ruins of their lives, that maybe, just maybe, that was never true and he _never_ had a chance or- even worse- that Eddie is- God, Richie hopes the fuck _not-_ living a lie again- this time a lie that involves women rather than pills.   
  
“That’s not a very nice thing to say about a guy’s wife.” Eddie mutters, maintaining a painful level of eye contact. There’s no bite to his words- in fact, he’s being excruciatingly neutral, somehow indifferent.   
  
“I suppose it isn’t.” Richie shrugs, takes another sip of the drink in his hands and another for good measure, in case this all goes south and he wants to wipe their last interaction from his memory.  
  
“Everything’s fucked,” Eddie mutters in a tiny voice. He blinks, eyes wet, and Richie’s sure he’s on the edge of crying. He’s also sure that _if_ he cries, he might not be able to let him go tomorrow; he might cling to his leg and beg him to stay and admit everything he’s kept inside “Do you feel like your life’s a lie, Rich? Like somehow, even though _It_ is dead, it still won?”   
  
_God yes._  
  
Richie’s never loved- not properly, anyway. There’s been moments, tiny little flitters in time, where he’s felt some kind of _affection,_ but it’s never really lasted. Because slowly, the spark’s fizzled out and he’s found that what he really wants is reassurance or to be touched or _something_ and Racheal, or Suzie, or Bethany, or whoever the fuck else it is- it doesn’t really matter, they all ended for the same reasons- aren’t quite _snarky_ enough, or they’re too laid back, or they don’t laugh enough at Richie’s jokes or they’re just _not right._ Of course he’s always felt like that, like something’s always been missing. He filled the void in his heart with drugs- coke, crack, blow, pot, whatever the fuck was being offered at the parties with the hot shots- until all that was left was a bigger hole, as if they slowly chipped away at him whilst creating a façade of fullness. Of course he feels like his entire fucking life is a lie, because it’s always been Eddie who he’s wanted to hold at night. How could he not feel like the clown has won when it took his life and _love_ away from him? What kind of question is that, _Eddie? Of course I want to kiss you, of course I always have, of course I can’t._  
  
“Sometimes.” He says instead. Eddie nods and bites his lip. Hard. Richie wants to kiss it better, but he doesn’t.   
  
“I think maybe we should go to bed. Got an early morning tomorrow.” Eddie miserably whispers, rising up and placing his glass against the wooden coffee table with a sad _thud._ Richie gulps for the pure purpose of forcing down the lump in his throat, watching as Eddie turns to look over his shoulder and smile in a tight-lipped, half-sure manner.   
  
Eddie’s given him the same look before. They’d spent the whole day in his house, packing his things despite Sonia saying Richie wasn’t allowed inside. Eddie’s final defense was threatening to stay in Derry if he couldn’t help pack, which never was entirely true but seemingly worked. It was hot, one of the hottest days of that summer, and they’d spent the whole time acting overly normal. Sweating, uncomfortable, joking and bantering as if it wouldn’t be their last time. When it finally came down to it, Eddie was rather emotionless where Richie was wet, sobbing and dramatic. They’d hugged in a manner that was perhaps too tight for something they adamantly agreed was _not_ a goodbye and Richie felt everything unsaid hanging on the tip of his tongue- all of his wants, all of the secrets he kept bottled up inside. Nights where they almost kissed, nights where they _definitely kissed,_ all left unsaid as he climbed inside the car and looked out the window, palm pressed against cold glass. A tight smile, a quiet goodbye. _I love you, Eddie. Kiss me, Eddie. Don’t go, Eddie. We can leave this town together, Eddie. Please, Eddie. Don’t let me lose you, Eddie._  
  
“Eds?” Eddie whips around on his heels, looking back with that same expression again, and balls his fists at the side of his hips, as if keeping himself from doing something stupid “Eds, will you forget me again?” He blinks slowly, as if in a movie, and suddenly, in a manner that almost makes Richie gasp and come rushing up, begging him to stop, a tear streams down his cheek. His lip wobbles and he refuses to turn completely to face him, instead offering a lingering, sideways glance.   
  
“Are you going to let me go again?” Richie sucks in a breath he didn’t know he was holding, shakily coming to his feet and putting his glass next to Eddie’s. They have the same level of liquid left, and they look like a pair sitting there- Richie doesn’t know what it means, but he thinks that maybe it’s some kind of sign.   
  
“Why are the hardest things to say always the most important?” Richie’s crying too, he’s sure, because his cheeks are tickling and wet, but he doesn’t dare wipe the tears away- they say everything words can’t convey.   
  
“I don’t want you to forget.” Eddie speaks as if he doesn’t want the world to hear, all hushed syllables and muttered vowels, looking at the floor.   
  
“I don’t either,” Richie admits, swallowing because his mouth is suddenly rather dry “I think I might die if I do.”   
  
“So do I.” Eddie steps forward- or maybe the right word is slump- just a little inch, as if extending a hand. Richie ambles forward, too. If he really tried, leant forward, stretched his fingers, extended a leg, he’s sure they could touch.   
  
“Eds, I-“  
  
“That isn’t my name.” Eddie says, but he’s smiling. It’s a sad smile, maybe wistful, but it’s still a smile. More tears streak his face.  
  
“I’m _sorry._ ” Another step forward. Eddie blinks.  
  
“What for?”  
  
“I don’t know, really… Loving you, maybe.” His heart is in his throat, he’s not sure if he’s breathing. Maybe it should be a difficult thing to say, after spending years hiding the truth, but he finds it isn’t really that difficult at all- as if they both knew all along and the real challenge was doing anything with it. Eddie steps forward, too- and suddenly he’s within hugging distance.   
  
“I have a wife.” He says, more so to himself, Richie’s sure. It’s funny- really, it _is­-_ so Richie snorts a laugh.  
  
“I know.” Eddie laughs too, but it’s somewhat sad. Loud, yes- hearty, yes- but sad, none the less.  
  
“I don’t think I love her. I like her, but maybe not love.” Richie nods, lips in a tight line.  
  
“Who do you love, then?” Eddie blinks, makes eye contact.  
  
“I think you already know the answer to that.”  
  
Richie leans in.  
  
And Eddie meets him halfway there.  
  
Eddie tastes like alcohol, mint, forgotten love and the whole universe. Richie’s hands fly to his hips, and Eddie’s tangle his hair. It’s messy, but there’s a lot unsaid that needs to be conveyed with their lips _somehow._  
  
Kissing Eddie hasn’t changed with time, it’s the same as that night at seventeen, the year they’d been torn apart- granted, that may be due to the same element of alcohol, but you’d be sure a guy would change kissing styles after being married for however long. That night, Eddie had been desperate. He kissed Richie once, and that was that. He tangled his fingers in his hair, pulled just a little- _Jesus, yes, just like now-_ and licked his way into his mouth until Richie was _sure_ Eddie Kaspbrak was a drug. A hundred percent, undeniably, a drug that he could get addicted to _very_ easily.  
  
But the key difference here is that Eddie-then was seventeen and scared. Eddie-now is forty, married, scared as shit but also, maybe, possibly, hopefully, a little horny. Eddie kisses Richie like he needs him to _survive_ and Richie happily supplies the oxygen he needs. He bites his lower lip, tugging in a manner than can only be described as ‘ _Holy shit, so fucking sexy, I might just cream my pants right now, is this a dream? Is this real? Pinch me, I’m going to have a nosebleed’_ before pulling away, panting into his mouth and looking at Richie with hooded eyelids that he’s _sure_ weren’t there when they were kids- no amount of alcohol or Derry amnesia would let him forget _that._  
  
“Take me to bed, Rich.”  
  
 _And he’ll be damned if he says no.  
  
_ Richie takes Eddie’s hand and practically _drags_ him upstairs, all hurried footsteps and awkward shuffles. They pass Beverly’s room in the hall, which has a bra dangling from the door handle- frilly and lazily swaying in the breeze. Richie snorts a hushed laugh, because that’s _hilarious-_ Bev gets off a good one!- and Eddie wrinkles his nose, because it implies something rather unsavory that Richie’s _sure_ isn’t very sanitary or Eddie-approved. Although, hopefully, it kind of _is,_ because he might have to chop off his dick if he gets blue-balled now. Oh, he can see it: ‘ _Take me to bed, Rich’_ being code for ‘ _I’m tired, goodnight.’_  
  
They find Richie’s room and Eddie wastes no time patting down his pockets for a key whilst he wallows drunkenly (and stupidly) that perhaps this kafuffle is for nothing more than one last goodbye. A weird goodbye, but a goodbye none the less. The keys jangle in the door, and Eddie swings it open carelessly, hurrying Richie inside to shut it behind.   
  
For a brief moment, Richie feels palpable tension in the air. Something thick, hazy and difficult to breathe through. He eyes Eddie carefully as he shuts the door behind him, suddenly nervous and a tad excited, too. He supposes that he’d probably stand there all night, dumbfounded with his hands twitching by his sides, if it isn’t for the fact that Eddie can be _bossy_ and he rather suddenly pushes him down onto the bedsheets to straddle him. Which, _okay,_ Richie can do that. Eddie pulls off his own shoes methodically, before undoing Richie’s for him, since he’s kind of been rendered dumb-struck by this whole situation. In theory, it shouldn’t be sexy, but it does all kinds of things to Richie anyway, because anything Eddie does overexcites his dick. Just like that, Eddie’s in his lap, leaning down to lick into his mouth in that crazed, hungry way again. Richie wastes no time bringing his hands up to his hips, carefully tracing the soft skin beneath his shirt like a lifeline. Eddie sighs, barely audible against Richie’s lips, and cups his face in the softest way imaginable.   
  
“I’ve never done this before.” He mutters, moving to press a sure and _very much there_ kiss against his jaw. It tickles, reminds Richie that _yeah, this is real- Eddie’s definitely in his lap._  
  
“What, had sex?”   
  
“No, _dumbass._ I have a _wife-_ of course I’ve _had sex._ ” Richie snorts a laugh, grinning up at Eddie who returns a similar smile.   
  
“You know I love it when you talk about your wife in bed.”  
  
“ _Jesus Christ,_ what do I even see in you?” Eddie asks, but he’s grinning now- proper, Cheshire cat grinning, all teeth and wrinkled eyes. _God, Richie loves him_ “I’ve never done this with a guy, is what I mean.” He corrects with a subtle eye roll.   
  
“ _Oh,_ ” Richie blurts stupidly because _what else is he supposed to say?_ It’s not like he’s the paragon of homosexuality, he’s only really done this thing _twice._ The first time being at a stupid college party where some guy with a short stature, fierce eyes and tanned skin blew him in the bathroom. Richie had to squeeze his eyes shut tight to pretend the guy was a girl in the end, otherwise he never would’ve shot his load and would’ve probably thrown up on him. The second time (and last time), he actually _did_ throw up- he’d been going down on this poor, poor guy when he blew chunks all over his dick. It was, admittedly, probably one of the lowest points of his life. But this is _Eddie,_ who’s looking down at him with so much _vulnerability_ that it makes his heart whirr painfully. Of course he’s not going to throw up, because he’s loved him for a long time, wanted this for a long time and, perhaps most importantly, if he so much as even _gags_ anywhere in the vicinity of his dick, Richie’s a dead man. Instead of say _all of that,_ though, he merely mutters: “It’s only me.” Before pressing a sure palm against Eddie’s thigh, just above the knee.   
  
“I trust you.” Eddie murmurs, and _by God, if that isn’t spank bank material right there. Someone please record that and put it on a loop for the rest of time, it’s all Richie Tozier will ever need to keep his dick working like a well-oiled machine._ Richie kisses Eddie softly, like how he’s sure Ben kisses Beverly because he’s a sap like that, like how he imagines Bill and Mike’s first kiss went, because they’re for sure a thing now, or how he’s sure Stanley kissed his wife (although, he doesn’t really want to think about that last one- he’s _far too sober_ for _that_ ). He can feel Eddie smile against his lips, and it’s enough to get Richie’s ass into gear, flipping them around so Eddie’s lying against the bed and Richie’s towering over him (which _also_ does something to him- cradling the man with his body).   
  
They lie like that for some time, desperate but perhaps not quite rushed- they have all the time in the world now, so long as they don’t take all night (with the schoolboy intensity of his boner, Richie’s sure the bigger challenge will be keeping from shooting his load too soon). They kiss until their lips feel raw and blown out, and then some more. Hands tangle in hair, in clothes, on skin, tousling and touching and tasting as if they could never get enough. With a groan, Eddie’s hips stutter forward and brush against Richie’s erection, the pressure blissful. Richie groans against his lips and Eddie does it again, each movement lighting a sure fire in the pit of his stomach. He’s all hands, grabbing at his shirt and fumbling with the buttons of his button-up, struggling to get a proper grip with how little space is between them.   
  
“Get this God-awful shirt off, Rich.” Eddie mutters bitterly, as if offended by the mere presence of the shirt, as if clothes are his arch nemesis or something. Richie almost defends it, because _rude-_ it’s a _good shirt,_ even if the pattern does look vaguely like vomit if you squint and Beverly’s insulted it _enough_ for him to _kind of get the hint._ But with the way Eddie’s been pulling at its collar to keep Richie down and kiss him, he wouldn’t really dare. He obliges, sitting up and fumbling in a rushed manner whilst Eddie sits down and shucks his own shirt off, too- albeit, somewhat quicker due to its absence of little, infuriating, cock-blocking buttons. _Fine,_ maybe Richie’s starting to see why Eddie hates the thing, too.   
  
Eddie lies back as Richie throws his shirt somewhere to his left- it doesn’t matter where, really. Richie looks down at him, with his short, neat hair splayed against the pillow and tousled, and feels his breath hitch. The first thing he notices is the clean, freshly changed gauze on his torso, covering where _It_ had hit him. Richie had enough sense, coming from the deadlights, to roll both of them off to the side, but it was only enough to lessen the damage, not prevent it entirely. Richie’s hand flitters to the bandages carefully as he grazes the material with a touch that’s barely there. Eddie’s gaze softens to something fond in a sad kind of way, gently holding Richie’s wrist and smiling in a tight-lipped manner when their gazes meet.   
  
“’S okay.” He mutters. Richie sniffles, and realizes that _hey, great- he’s crying for a second time tonight like some kind of_ wuss _with_ emotions _._  
  
“Does it hurt?” Richie mutters in a wet, small voice. Eddie’s free hand flitters to Richie’s face, wiping his tears away with a shaky thumb before settling to cup his face. Eddie. Touching Richie like _this-_ all soft and sappy and _fuck, who woulda thunk it?_  
  
“Not as much as you think.” Richie nods, shakes his head as if trying to clear his mind, and looks back down at Eddie with a stupid, signature grin.  
  
“Look at you, though. You’re all- _hot and shit._ ” Eddie’s eyes widen and he suddenly laughs, all fill of mirth and joy, moving his hand to wipe away his own tears this time.   
  
“You’re a dick.” Eddie’s eyes wrinkle, he looks more his age than he ever has before, and by _God, is he gorgeous._  
  
“You _are._ ” Eddie snorts a laugh and gently pushes at Richie’s bare chest, leaving it there, right by his heart, as he pries his eyes open, still grinning gorgeously.   
  
“Yeah, yeah- and I could say the same about you.” Richie scoffs, looking down at Eddie. The comparison is hardly fair, really, when Eddie’s all toned- baby fat be damned now that he’s a _man_ with a fitness routine and- _are those abs? Those might_ actually _be abs. Oh God, Eddie’s got abs and all Richie’s got going for him is an ungodly amount of chest hair.  
  
_ “Uh, _no._ ” Richie retorts, distracted by the suddenly tempting prospect of being able to kiss Eddie’s fucking _abs_ or _touch them_ or even just _keep looking at them._ His mouth waters, and he’s sure he’s probably drooling like an idiot. Boy oh boy, is Richie just a _canister_ of mood swings tonight. He leans forward, hands outstretched towards the twitching muscles of Eddie’s body, hyper fixated on the toned, slim muscles of his arms and the dipping swoop of his- somehow still feminine despite his slim stature- hips, leaning forward to bring him down for a searing kiss. At the last moment, just as he can feel shallow breaths against the flesh of his lips, Eddie presses a sure palm against Richie’s shoulder, keeping him back but not quite pushing.   
  
“Rich,” Eddie mutters, eyes a deadly combination of soft and demanding, serious “I don’t think you quite realise how criminal it is that _you,_ the gangly boy who couldn’t so much as walk without tripping over his long, noodly legs, filled out like a fucking _hunk._ ”   
  
“Me? Hunk?” Richie splutters, because the entire concept of such a thing is so preposterous that he can’t help but giggle a little “I know I’m irresistible and all, but _please,_ Eddie. You don’t have to waste all your compliments on my fat, save them for when I whip out my massive, throbbing di-“  
  
“ _Fat!?_ ” Eddie shrieks in a shrill voice, making Richie wince “Shut the fuck up, Richie. Oh my _God,_ do you not see your shoulders?” As if punctuating his point, Eddie smooths his hands against the expanse of his chest, in a similar manner to how a wife may even out a wrinkle in her husband’s shirt “you’re a fucking idiot if you think-“  
  
“You know, if you told me this twenty seven years ago I would’ve-“  
  
“Jesus Christ Richie,” In a rather sudden manner- bruising, even- Eddie pulls Richie down by those shoulders of his, which apparently have been the cause of his sexual torment for the past few days, crashing their lips together and licking into his mouth hungrily. Richie groans, panting heavily when they pull apart with a slick, wet sound “can you just shut the fuck up?”  
  
“Uh,” Richie tries, piecing together his scrambled thoughts “yeah, sure- can do, Eds.”  
  
“That isn’t my fucking name.” Eddie mutters with a frustrated pinch between his brows, pulling Richie towards him by the shoulders and angling his face slightly to kiss his neck. Richie shivers, biting back an embarrassingly loud, surprised moan because _this shouldn’t feel so good- it’s only necking, for Christ’s sake! What is he, sixteen!?_ Squeezing his eyes shut and biting down on his lip, Richie muffles the embarrassing squeaks begging to claw their way from his throat, instead settling on gently holding Eddie’s hips, running his thumb over the smooth skin beneath his fingertips. He feels the sharp tinge of teeth sinking into the flesh beneath his Adam’s apple, and pants out a dizzy breath, the concept of _Eddie_ marking him rendering him utterly mindless. He feels hands against his chest, his back, carding their way through the hair that runs down his navel and pulls back just a little to press his lips against Eddie’s again. It’s a softer kiss, one that conveys the complication of their nervousness and mixed desire- Richie sucks gently at Eddie’s bottom lip and licks into his mouth, cupping the soft skin of his cheek in one hand. He pries his eyes open, finding that he’s already being watched. Eddie’s eyes shine, millions of galaxies behind his gaze, and he grins in a lazy, unbothered manner.   
  
“Hey,” Richie whispers, his words private, for Eddie’s ears and his only. Eddie blinks, eyelashes flittering, but otherwise stays silent- always the patient one of the two, always waiting and ready “we don’t have to do anything.” He clarifies, because he’s well aware of the way Eddie’s hands shiver and quake at his chest, grabbing him for reassurance. Eddie, to give him credit, doesn’t give away any sign of what he’s thinking, staring into Richie’s eyes in a dazed manner.  
  
“I want to.” He whispers back, equally as private. Richie nods, looks at Eddie’s spit-slick lips, ignores the way his dick twitches at the sight.   
  
“ _Sweetheart,_ ” Richie begins, unable to keep his lips from tugging upwards when Eddie’s cheeks turn rosy “I need you to promise me that this won’t just be it. Please- _please-_ don’t let this be goodbye.” And it’s surprising, really- surprising that he’s the one showing restraint, that he’s the one who’s bringing up what they know they need to discuss before they’re in it too deep (or, rather, Richie’s in _Eddie_ too deep- _ha!_ ) and there’s no turning back, no burying what’s been dug up. He’s always been the impulsive one, Richie’s always been the one to act on desire and never think things through. He’s sure that if he was seventeen again, he’d probably be ploughing through this entire thing, taking as many bite-sized pieces of Eddie as he can until he inevitably pushes away and rejects him. But the thing is that he knows what it’s like to lose Eddie after having the opportunity of _something_ and he knows how painful that can be. Richie doesn’t have much strength left, not anymore, now that he has nothing waiting for him back at home, and he’s sure he’ll collapse if he has to deal with that pain again. Or, perhaps more realistically, turn to the easy relief of drugs, dope himself up until he’s hardly Richie Tozier anymore and someone far, far away from himself, and inevitably overdose. No, Richie’s gotten soft, fragile with age- he can’t deal with any more pain.   
  
Rather than reply, Eddie chokes out a whiney kind of sound, biting his lip out of habit- it’s a bad habit, really, an anxious tick he’s had ever since he was a kid. Richie leans forward carefully and pulls his teeth from the flesh, running his thumb over the bitten-raw skin twice before cupping his face again. Eddie eyes the hand he has against Richie’s shoulder, all pensive and quiet and Richie, for the first time in his life, waits patiently. Eddie looks up into his eyes, back down to the hand, moves the other one. Richie watches, head bent downwards, as Eddie fiddles with the ring on his finger, shimmying it off in a careful, twisting motion. He gulps deeply when the metal is removed, leaving a band-like indent where it once was, and watches as its tossed somewhere across the room, lost in the dim lighting of the hotel room. Eddie looks at Richie, Richie turns to Eddie.   
  
“I’ve never been happy- not really, anyway,” He mutters, explaining himself as if he really needs to “being with you, it’s- It’s the happiest I’ve ever been, I think,” Richie tears up again and distantly thinks he’s broken a world record, with how many times he’s cried tonight “And that isn’t to say this is going to be easy- _Rich,_ I’m still confused, I’m _scared_ \- I’m scared of being happy, I guess, because I haven’t been in a long time. But these past few days, I’ve felt _alive,_ I’ve been more myself than I’ve ever been on my own. That’s- that’s because of you, Rich. It’s always because of you, it’s _always been_ because of you. You’re my happiness. The first person, and only, I think, who’s ever loved me for who and what I am.”  
  
“Eds.” Richie mutters in a broken, cracked voice. Eddie smiles and cups Richie’s face as if it’s the most precious thing he’s ever been trusted holding.   
  
“And I don’t hate that nickname, not really. I- I love it, I love it _so much._ I love it _too much._ ” Richie’s lip wobbles in an ugly, unstable manner and suddenly, Eddie’s pressing his own against it, as if soothing him to stillness. It’s a feather light touch, barely a kiss, and it lights Richie’s insides on fire.   
  
“You know I love you, right?” Eddie chuckles a breathy laugh, wiping the wet tear tracks dry off his face.   
  
“Well, you’re barely subtle.” And, with that, he smiles- not a grin, or a tight, quiet look. It’s the kind of smile he used to offer whenever Richie would help him prepare for a test, whispering ‘ _thanks, Rich’,_ the kind of look he’d have before drifting off to sleep in a shared bed, cuddled tight to his side and thankful for the company that will keep away nightmares. It’s an Eddie smile, it’s his prettiest smile- and that’s saying a lot, because they’re all breathtaking- it’s the most genuine Eddie can get, the kind of smile you see and you know, without a doubt, is a hundred percent real. No façade, no unspoken secrets- that smile, that look, _is_ what’s being said.   
  
Eddie. It’s always been Eddie. This moment was always going to come to them- they were always going to end up here, whispering in hushed voices, saying things only for one another, making promises that they can, for once in their lives, trust will be kept. Richie was always going to be here, holding Eddie and looking down at him in the hazy, yellow-tinged lighting of a cheap hotel room.   
  
Eddie gently pushes Richie off of him, sitting up to shuck off his pants in a slow, unashamed manner. Nervousness simmers and slides off of him in bits, and Richie finds that, as he takes off his own pants, he doesn’t mind how he looks. He doesn’t care if he has hair on his chest or arms, doesn’t care that maybe he’s heavier than Eddie, because he _knows,_ deep down he _knows,_ that not only doesn’t he care, but Eddie _loves_ all those parts of him.   
  
They kiss for what seems like hours but is realistically minutes, until their lips feel slippery and blown out like rubber. Eddie straddles Richie and carefully brings his fingertips beneath the cloth of his boxers, taking his length into the warm comfort of his hand and kissing Richie silly whilst stroking him. It’s funny, really- he’d always imagined in his fantasies that their first time would be passionate, fast and hard, like running up a mountain. Instead, it’s all soft looks and even softer touches, a marathon to an end that they’re not even bothered thinking about. It starts with that lazy ache at the back of your knees and slowly builds to something simmering and burning as you keep strolling up the trail. It’s walking for the sake of it, walking to admire the scenery and ponder your existence. It’s the lazy flick of Eddie’s wrist, the way his body rolls onto Richie’s thigh sporadically, it’s the way he sucks in a breath when Richie palms his ass. It’s the heat pooling at his abdomen, the slow build of it all, the way sex and climax feels like only an afterthought, because being here with Eddie is enough.  
  
“Do you have condoms?” Eddie pants against the flesh of Richie’s blown-out lips, running his fingertips over his stubble, scratching the short hairs slightly. He grins wolfishly, leans up to slot their lips together quickly before gesturing for Eddie to get up, rising to his own feet shortly after and padding across the floor, feeling a sudden chill run over his spine with the absence of body warmth. He finds his bag pretty quickly, which is half-packed (but not really- more or less clothes are just thrown around an open zipper, not quite in as if he hasn’t really thought that far) and rummages through the side zippers. Eventually, he finds a square package, and throws it in the air triumphantly, fishing around for a bottle of lube with his free hand.   
  
“Huzzah! Success!” Eddie snorts a laugh, shaking his head.   
  
“What compelled you to bring a condom to Derry, Rich? Hoping you’d get lucky amidst fighting a killer clown?” Richie shrugs and stands, padding over to the bed and sitting on the edge to shuck off his underwear.   
  
“Well I am right now, aren’t I?”  
  
“This is _after_ fighting.”   
  
“Still getting lucky in Derry,” Richie points out, climbing towards Eddie, freshly bare and exposed, to hover over him “I packed them earlier when I had a show, I think.” He brackets his arms around Eddie, caging him in, whilst he raises a brow.   
  
“So you were planning on getting lucky during a show, huh?”   
  
“Eds, darling, baby,” Richie leans down to kiss Eddie’s cheeks, followed by his forehead and nose in quick succession. Eddie scoffs, tries to swat him away, laughs in a breathy, amused manner “It’s been two years since I did _anything_ with _anyone._ I like to carry them around in case people need some- makes me feel useful. Like when girls have extra hair ties to offer.”  
  
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Eddie deadpans, smiling despite his neutral gaze “What, so you could give some to Bev and Ben?” Richie makes an affirming noise, sucking a bruise against the supple skin of Eddie’s neck before popping off and licking the mark to soothe it.  
  
“Or Mike and Bill, because they’re definitely fuckin’”  
  
“I’m sure they’re thrilled to know we’re discussing their sex life.”  
  
“For science!” Richie exclaims, dipping his fingers into the waistband of Eddie’s shorts, grazing his hipbone and the hair at his navel. Eddie’s breath hitches, becomes a little panty.  
  
“Let’s end this conversation- I’m not too keen on thinking about our friends whilst we do this.”  
  
“You sure? Ben’s face might help, guy’s a hottie. Oh! Or _Mike._ ” Richie gently smooths his hand over Eddie’s thigh, holding back an overexcited groan at the concept of _finally_ fulfilling his childhood dreams and _touching them_ , gentle fingertips exploring the sensitive skin of their insides.   
  
“Rich.” Eddie warns, voice broken and whiny when his hand grazes at the bulge in his underwear. Richie grins, moves back and leans down to kiss Eddie’s thighs open-mouthed.  
  
“Eddie.” He mirrors, sounding unintentionally desperate. Eddie’s hands fly to his hair when he begins marking his legs, carding through and caressing the skin of his scalp.   
  
“Are you- _Jesus-_ are you always such a fucking _tease_?”   
  
“You like it though, don’t you? Richie thinks that Eddie Jr. is definitely excited.” Richie bites down at the flesh against his lips, smiling when Eddie whines quietly.  
  
“Did you just,”-a hitch of the breath with the way Richie’s mouth creeps up higher- “call my dick Eddie Jr?” Richie smiles and looks up at Eddie, who’s wrinkling his nose in faux disgust- it isn’t very convincing, with how his cheeks look pinched red and his breath is ragged “I hate you.”  
  
“No you don’t, Eds. I think you love me.” Eddie rolls his eyes, clearly holding back a smile, and beckons Richie over with a tug of his arm, leaning up to kiss him.   
  
“C’mon, Rich. I’m turning grey up here.”  
  
“Eds gets off a good one.” Richie mutters between kisses.  
  
“Help me get these off.” Eddie responds, lifting his hips up and biting back a laugh at the way Richie scrambles to his knees to slide his underwear off.   
  
Not to be overdramatic or anything, but Eddie’s dick is God-like. Looking down at him, bare and _gorgeous,_ he’s sure he must be an angel- a snappy one, sure, but an angel regardless. He’s all golden skin, built as if handmade by the Gods, cock hard and leaking stripes of pre-cum. Richie licks his lips subconsciously, resisting the urge to palm himself, and looks at Eddie’s face, who’s very clearly averting his gaze to hide his embarrassment. It’s cute, it’s endearing, it’s so… _Eddie._ Richie climbs back up, to lie against him, and feels himself blush at the way they slot together, bites back a giddy giggle at the feeling of skin on skin- all smooth and soft and intimate. Eddie hugs Richie close to him, palms flat against his back, as he fumbles for the lube and pops the cap open, coating his fingers until they’re slick.   
  
“Ready?” He asks, bending down to lick into Eddie’s mouth briefly, listening to the delectable sigh that escapes his lips.   
  
“Yeah.” He mutters, pressing his mouth against Richie’s but not quite kissing- touching for the sake of touching- and spreading his thighs just a little. Richie doesn’t move, instead bringing his hands behind him and shuffling a little to get a better view, sure that he wants to watch the little changes in Eddie’s expression as he touches him. Gently, he rubs his index finger over Eddie’s hole, watching the way he huffs out a breath and quivers with open, engaged eyes. Gently, carefully, with bated breath, he brings the first finger inside, moving at a pace that could be defined as _a bit too slow_ just in case it hurts.  
  
“Okay?” Eddie stutters out a breath, squeezing his eyes shut.   
  
“A little weird,” he pants, breath hot against Richie’s sweaty skin “but fine- don’t stop.” Richie nods, kissing Eddie’s cheek as he slides his finger in at a crawl of a pace, slotting their lips together when the first finger is at a knuckle.   
  
“You’re doing so good,” Eddie ducks his head against his shoulder, sighing contently when Richie presses a chaste kiss to his earlobe “tell me when to move.”   
  
“It’s _well_ \- you’re doing _well,_ Richie.” Eddie, the little shit, corrects, voice broken and unstable. Richie laughs, smiling wide.  
  
“Some things never change.”  
  
“Keep going, I’m ready now.” Richie pulls back just by an inch or so and slowly pumps in, watching the way Eddie’s brow twitches with discomfort. His hand, which is resting against his shoulder, clenches just a little, enough for his fingers to push against skin, and Richie continues the pace, slowly moving faster and deeper, but otherwise remaining steadfast and steady. It isn’t long for Eddie’s face to relax and his breath to deepen, become more audible.   
  
Richie decides then and there that he loves Eddie like this: panting, seeming unbothered, unravelling and relaxing and looking like an ice cube about to melt. At bliss, thoughtless, caring for nothing more than Richie. He curls his finger, just a little, and Eddie makes a shrill, whiney sound that Richie’s sure he could listen to on repeat and never grow tired of. His hand clutches desperately at his shoulder like a vice and it isn’t long until he’s crying ‘ _more, Richie, add another’_ , to which he’s more than happy to comply. Tentative silence and bated breaths turn to whines and Eddie’s head rolling back against the sheets and all Richie does is watch, analyse each movement of his body, every reaction, to keep for later. It’s strange, knowing someone for years and only just learning the sounds he makes when Richie’s finger brushes against his prostate, the little pinch of his brows and way he nibbles his lips, like he does when he’s anxious, but in a far less painful and more strained manner. It’s all the parts of Eddie that he’s never seen, but wanted _so badly_ and he cherishes it, reminds himself that _this is real and this is for him._  
  
“ _Fuck, Richie-_ I’m ready, puh- put it in, come on Rich, put it in for me.” And how can he say no when Eddie’s like this: incoherent, scrambled, frazzled, looking like he’s about to cry or come or burst and obliterate into a million speckles of stardust. He removes his fingers, letting out a hushed laugh when Eddie whines with a needy sound, and finds the condom quickly, tearing open the packet and rolling rubber onto his dick in one, swift motion. Eddie shuffles and bends himself in half so his leg settles in the crook of Richie’s shoulder, which- _wow, okay, that’s hot._  
  
“Been doing yoga, Eds?” Richie teases, lining himself up.   
  
“For five years- now hurry up and fuck me _please._ ”   
  
“Well, since you asked _so nicely._ ” Gently, afraid to make the pretty face staring at him with frustrated eyes twist in pain, he pushes himself inside Eddie, relishing the way the sucks in a breath and rakes blunt fingernails over his back. Eddie’s quick to wine and pant girlishly, staring into Richie’s eyes as if he’s found the answers to the universe somewhere in there- it makes his belly burn with a steady fire, makes him want all of Eddie at once. But, because Eddie’s stubborn and always the last person to admit being in pain, Richie doesn’t- instead, he licks and savors and guides, fucking into him at such a slow pace that he’s sure, if he wasn’t busy sweating and looking so blissed out, Eddie would complain. He bottoms out, body fitted right up against him, and leans in for a searing kiss, all messy and slippery. They lie there, intimately and irrevocably connected, until Eddie begins pawing again at Richie’s back, wriggling his hips as much as he can.  
  
“So impatient.” Richie chastises, nibbling at Eddie’s ear, which makes him yelp and whine.   
  
“So fucking _slow._ ” Eddie pants out, fisting handfuls of black curls to pull him down for a wet, hot kiss. Richie obliges, shuffling his hips just a little to rock flush against him- nothing too intense, but rather movement and friction for the sake of watching him let out a relieved sigh.   
  
“Lookin’ good, Kaspbrak.” Richie absently drawls, rubbing at the soft, smooth, seemingly shaven (another _very sexy_ thing to note) calf pressed against his shoulder. His hips stutter out a little further, and Eddie rocks his body forward to meet him there halfway, the dirty sound of skin against skin sending blood rushing down to his abdomen.   
  
“Quit _teasing._ ”   
  
“Can’t, baby,” Richie tucks a strand of hair that’s been stuck to Eddie’s sweaty forehead behind his ear, maintaining a steady and patient rock of the hips “you’re so pretty like this.” Eddie whines, turns red, digs his fingers just a little more into Richie’s back and leans up to slot their lips together.  
  
“Shut up.” He mumbles between kisses. Richie grins and repositions himself for a little more wriggle room, speeding up shallow thrusts but, for the most part, remaining antagonizingly slow. Eddie doesn’t seem to mind the speed too much anyway, despite his complaining- he’s panting out deep, humid breaths, staring up at Richie with the corners of his lips twitching upwards, as if teasing the prospect of a smile.   
  
Richie finds that fucking Eddie like this- soft, loving, gentle and _just right_ \- is something of a comfort. He feels warm, from the tips of his toes to his blushing ears, the words safety and affection coming to mind. Being inside Eddie, kissing between guttural moans, feels somewhat like coming home- there’s a safety and sureness, a knowledge that so long as they are with one another, they are complete. There’s nothing grotesque or wrong about this, really, because it’s _Eddie._ He’s always struggled with his sexuality, with liking boys and realizing its _okay-_ but this is nothing like those times he’d have a wet dream and cry into his pillow at fourteen- this is, undeniably, right. Richie’s satisfied, he feels like this is the truest thing he’s ever done, almost as if finally realizing himself, finally coming to terms with his feelings and who he is- as if Eddie is the key that unlocks his heart.   
  
And, finishing inside Eddie, pressing his lips into the crook of his neck whilst a mantra of ‘ _Richie, Richie, Richie…’_ s is panted into his ear, he’s well aware of the swell in his heart. With sweat pouring off his skin in waves, moans and groans escaping his lips, he finds that all the pressure and tension of leaving things unsaid, leaving things undone, never quite loving Eddie how he always wanted, washes away, too. Richie’s always loved him, always ignored that love, always let opportunity slip between his fingers- but not this time. This time he’s grasped, taken a strong hold, and pulled Eddie until he’s curled against his chest and safe and aware that _yes, there are people out there who care about who he is deep down._  
  
They clean up, then lie against the crinkled, tousled bedsheets- sweaty and panting and drunk with the memory of skin on skin. Eddie curls up into his chest, runs his fingers across his stomach in a ticklish motion, smiles and giggles giddily, and Richie brings him in tighter, reminds him that he’s loved him for an eternity, and he’ll keep loving him for centuries more.   
  
“Will you come back home with me, Eds?”  
  
There’s so many things he could say, so many things to consider. His wife, his business, the divorce he’d inevitably need to file. There’s so many reasons to say no, so many opportunities they could keep missing, so many mistakes to repeat until the folds of time and records of their lives only reflect failed happiness’s.   
  
“Rich…” But those regrets wash away like the sand of a beach; in slow grains, in a gradual pace until all that is left is clear water and sloppy waves that promise prosperity and beauty.   
  
“There’s nothing I’d rather do.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Not my first time writing smut, but my first time posting. Hope y'all enjoyed xx  
> You can follow me on tumblr @AleckIsVeryGay


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